Elizabeth Jane Shelton
Elsie straightened her apron, smoothing the brightly patterned fabric. Her stainless-steel stand mixer, cake pans, bowls, and measuring cups and spoons were all carefully arranged on the white stone kitchen counter.
Her mother always said that the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but that was usually about eating food, not making it. Would that strategy work for Elsie now? Or would this be yet another bead in her string of romantic failures?
A familiar chorus ran through her mind. He’s not interested in you. You’re going to lose his friendship. This will be a disaster.
She gritted her teeth and offered up a prayer. Please, God, help me out here. I like this guy too much to mess this up.
Elsie jumped when the doorbell rang, then took a deep breath, trying to calm her churning stomach. Despite her nerves, she couldn’t help the grin that spread over her face as she opened the door. “Hi, Whit.”
Whit Scyphers smiled in greeting, and Elsie’s insides melted a little. “Hey, Elsie,” he said, voice singing with an Appalachian lilt. Whit’s athletic frame nearly filled the doorway as he hefted a bulging canvas bag over one shoulder. With the other arm, he cradled a large book with a paisley cloth cover to his chest. “Ready to get started?”
“Yep! Everything’s set.”
After months of their project, Whit had become plenty familiar with her apartment, and he made himself at home, taking off his shoes before leading the way into the kitchen. “I’ve got the rest of the ingredients. My dad mailed me sorghum syrup, so we don’t have to substitute molasses,” he said excitedly, handing Elsie a mason jar of a dark, sticky substance as he unpacked his bag.
Elsie grinned. “Your mamaw would be proud.”
Whit gingerly opened the cookbook of Appalachian recipes to the very last page, a sheet of crackling yellow paper filled with Whit’s mamaw’s handwriting. The script was nearly illegible, but after working her way through the entire cookbook, Elsie could make out the title: Apple Stack Cake.
When Whit had originally knocked on Elsie’s door six months ago, holding his mamaw’s cookbook between them like a shield, Elsie had been nervous. She’d lived alone for years, and while she was used to dealing with troublemakers, she wasn’t sure what she would do if her new neighbor proved problematic.
Instead he’d blushed, as if he was as nervous as she was. “Um, hi. I’m Whit? From across the hall? You made me cookies when I moved in?” He managed to make each statement sound like a question. When Elsie nodded, he asked, “Do you like to bake?”
Elsie blinked. “I . . . yeah, I guess so.”
Whit held out the paisley-wrapped book. “This is my mamaw’s cookbook. She . . . she died a few months ago. I want to make all of her recipes. To remember her. But I . . . I don’t know how to bake. Or cook.” He swallowed. “Would you be willing to teach me?”
His idea had been so sweet, she hadn’t been able to resist agreeing. That had been the start of their once-a-week cooking and baking sessions.
It had also been the start of Elsie falling in love with Whit.
So far, she hadn’t said anything. The moments they had shared in her kitchen—bent over the cookbook, shoulders touching as they deciphered Mamaw’s handwriting—were precious to Elsie. She didn’t want to risk losing that. But with each recipe from that cookbook, she’d fallen a little more head over heels for Whit.
And now they’d arrived at the final recipe. There was no more next time to look forward to.
Unless she made one happen.
Maybe Whit didn’t feel the same way about her. But she would regret it forever if she didn’t find out.
When the first layers of cake were in the oven, Elsie boosted herself onto a clean section of the counter. “I wish I could have met your mamaw.”
He paused in his stirring of the apple filling. “She would have liked you. You’re smart. And independent.” He grinned. “And you can make all her recipes.” His face fell. “I can’t believe this is the last one.”
“What would you say if we just . . . kept going?”
Whit frowned. “But we’re out of recipes.”
Elsie braced herself. “If it means I get to keep seeing you, I’ll buy every cookbook at Barnes & Noble.”
Whit dropped the wooden spoon into the pot. “What?”
Elsie’s face burned, but she pressed on. “I like you, Whit. I like being friends. And . . . I want to see if we can be more than friends.” She swallowed. “What do you think?”
Elsie’s stomach churned as the seconds trickled past in silence. Inside her head, the litany of fear grew louder. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? What makes you think he would want to be with you? Why—
Whit stepped forward, and the voices fell silent.
Even with Elsie sitting on the counter, Whit was still taller than her, and she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact as he drew near enough to touch her. He searched her face uncertainly. “You mean that?”
“Of course.” She shrugged. “I want you around. If you want to be around, that is.”
He drew even closer, and she held her breath as he tentatively cupped her face with one hand. “I do.”
He leaned in, but just as Elsie closed her eyes, the oven timer went off with a riiiiing! The alarm sounded loud enough to jolt Elsie, and she reeled back. Whit looked similarly shocked, eyes wide, lips parted.
For a moment, they just stared.
Then Elsie began to laugh, and Whit joined in, until they were both laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. Finally, Elsie composed herself. “Let’s finish this cake,” she suggested wryly. “Then we can talk about where we go from here.”
Whit grinned. “Food, then romance. Just how Mamaw liked it.”
When she’s not writing, you can find her programming at her job as a software engineer, sewing something to wear to church, or playing board games with friends.
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